My Mafia Stalker

Always Watching

The next morning comes heavy and colorless, as if the sun itself is reluctant to rise. Ali sits at her kitchen table with her camera beside her, fingers tapping the wood in uneven rhythm. She hasn’t slept properly in days, and her eyes sting from the strain of staring into the dark too long. The camera feels like both a weapon and a witness. It used to be her comfort—her way of seeing the world. Now it’s how she tries to prove she’s not losing her mind.

Her phone vibrates. The name on the screen makes her exhale: Mia.

Ali answers, trying to sound normal. “Hey.”

“You sound awful,” Mia says. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not really.” Ali forces a laugh. “Had some editing to do.”

There’s a pause. “You mean you were staring out your window again, waiting for the boogeyman?”

Ali grips the phone tighter. “That’s not funny.”

“Ali, come on. You need to stop obsessing over this. You said you called the police already. They didn’t find anything, right?”

“No,” Ali murmurs. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not there.”

Mia sighs on the other end. “You’ve been cooped up for days. Maybe you just need to get out. Go take some photos somewhere bright—like the park, or the harbor. You always say shooting helps you think.”

Ali stares at her camera. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Promise me you’ll try?”

“Sure,” she says, even though she doesn’t mean it.

After they hang up, Ali lifts her camera and turns it on. The familiar click and whirr comfort her for a moment. Through the lens, her apartment looks almost peaceful—the soft morning light, the empty coffee cup, the half-open blinds. She zooms in on the window, focusing on the faint smudge on the glass. It looks like a fingerprint. She swallows hard.

She sets the camera down and moves closer to inspect it. The print is faint but real, right at eye level. She touches it gently with her fingertip. It’s on the outside.

Ali’s breath catches.

She spends the rest of the morning pretending to be productive. She uploads old photos, edits them absently, tries to lose herself in color correction and light balance. But her focus slips constantly. Every reflection in her apartment feels like an accusation. Every muted sound makes her flinch.

By noon, she can’t take it anymore. She grabs her jacket and camera and forces herself outside. The air is crisp, heavy with the smell of rain.

The park isn’t far, but every step feels watched. She moves through the path slowly, scanning faces, checking the reflection in every passing window. Mothers push strollers, joggers pass by with earbuds in, kids laugh on the swings. Normal. Ordinary. Yet she feels his eyes on her, just beyond the edges of sight.

She lifts her camera and begins taking pictures—anything to steady herself. A man reading a newspaper on a bench. A child chasing pigeons. The glint of sunlight through tree branches. The sound of the shutter soothes her, the familiar rhythm grounding her breath.

She lowers the camera and notices a figure in the distance, leaning against a lamppost. Black jacket, hands in pockets, head tilted slightly down. She can’t see his face.

Her stomach knots. She raises the camera again, pretending to photograph the trees, and zooms in. The figure is looking right at her.

Click.

The shutter sound feels too loud, like a gunshot. The man shifts, straightens, and walks away.

Ali lowers the camera, heart pounding, but he’s already gone.

When she gets home, she locks the door and uploads the photos immediately, scrolling through them with shaking hands. The images blur past until she finds the one from the park. She enlarges it. The figure is there, half in shadow, too far to make out details. But she can see the faint outline of a smile.

A chill ripples through her.

That night, she calls Mia again.

“He was there,” Ali says before Mia can even greet her. “In the park. I saw him.”

“Ali—”

“I took a picture. I have proof.”

Mia sighs. “Can you send it?”

Ali hesitates. “No. I don’t want it leaving my computer.”

“That doesn’t make sense—”

“Mia, please just listen.” Her voice trembles. “He knows where I go. He knew I’d be there. He’s always one step ahead.”

Mia’s tone softens. “Ali, you’re scaring yourself. You’re exhausted. Maybe it’s time you see someone about this, yeah? Just to talk.”

Ali laughs bitterly. “You think I’m crazy.”

“I think you’re scared, and you have every right to be. But fear can do things to your head. It can twist what you see.”

Ali hangs up.

The apartment feels smaller now, like the walls have moved closer. She shuts down the computer and walks to the window. The city below glows faintly with streetlights and neon signs. She watches the reflections ripple across the glass until she notices it—her own face, pale and tired, and behind her, something darker.

She spins around, but there’s nothing there. Just shadows.

Her breath comes in shallow bursts. “You’re fine,” she whispers to herself. “You’re fine.”

But she can’t shake the feeling that she isn’t.

The next few days blur together. She barely eats. Sleep comes in short, broken stretches filled with dreams of being photographed from behind. Each morning, she wakes to find new marks she can’t explain—a small scrape on her arm, a bruise on her shoulder. She tells herself she must’ve bumped into something in her sleep.

By Thursday, she decides to check the footage from the small security camera she’d installed by the door a month ago. She scrolls through hours of nothing—empty hallway, flickering light. Then at 3:02 a.m., the image wavers, static distorting the screen. When it clears, she freezes.

There’s someone standing outside her door. A tall figure, unmoving, face obscured by the angle of the camera. They stand there for nearly five minutes, then lean forward—close enough that only their eyes fill the frame.

Ali stops the video. Her stomach twists. She deletes the footage before she can watch more.

That night, she calls Mia again, voice barely steady. “He was at my door.”

“What?”

“I have footage. I deleted it, but—Mia, he was right there. He knew where I live.”

“Ali, why would you delete it?”

“I didn’t want to see it again.”

Mia exhales sharply. “Okay. You need to come stay with me for a few nights. Please. Bring your camera if you want, but get out of that apartment.”

Ali hesitates. “He’ll follow me.”

“Then let him try. You can’t live like this.”

Ali finally agrees. She packs a small bag, her camera, and a few essentials. Before leaving, she takes one last look around her apartment. Everything looks the same, but she can’t shake the feeling that she’s leaving something unfinished.

At Mia’s place, things feel normal again—for a while. The apartment is bright and smells like lavender. Mia insists on keeping her company, making tea and talking about everything except the stalker. Ali tries to laugh, tries to act normal, but her eyes keep darting to the windows.

That night, as they watch a movie, Mia nudges her. “See? Not so bad. No monsters, no mysterious shadows.”

Ali forces a smile. “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

Mia grins. “I usually am.”

For a brief moment, Ali almost believes it. The warmth of the room, the sound of Mia’s laughter—it all feels distant but real.

Then, just before midnight, Ali’s phone buzzes. Unknown number. Her blood runs cold.

She opens the message. Another photo.

It’s of her and Mia, sitting on the couch—taken through the window.

Her throat tightens. “Mia.”

“What’s wrong?”

Ali hands her the phone. Mia’s smile fades instantly.

“Is this a joke?” she whispers.

Ali shakes her head. “He’s here.”

They rush to the window, but there’s nothing. The street is empty, silent except for the faint hum of a passing car.

Mia closes the curtains with shaking hands. “We’re calling the police.”

But the police arrive too late. They find nothing again—no footprints, no fingerprints, nothing on the cameras outside the building.

After they leave, Mia insists Ali sleep in her room. She gives her the bed, taking the couch herself.

Ali lies awake, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet except for the soft sound of rain tapping the window. She tells herself she’s safe. She tells herself it’s over.

But when she closes her eyes, she sees flashes—of a man’s silhouette, of camera flashes in the dark, of eyes that don’t blink.

She wakes hours later to the faint click of a shutter.

Her eyes snap open.

The room is dim, lit only by the faint gray light of dawn. Her camera sits on the desk across the room.

And its red recording light is on.

Ali stumbles out of bed, rushes to the desk, and grabs it. Her heart hammers as she checks the memory card. There’s a new folder—timestamped 4:13 a.m.

Her hands shake as she opens it. The screen fills with images of her sleeping. Each one closer than the last.

The final photo is of her eyes open, staring directly into the lens.

Ali drops the camera.

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t move. She just stands there, numb, the sound of her pulse roaring in her ears.

“Mia!” she calls finally, voice cracking.

Mia bursts into the room. “What happened?”

Ali points to the camera, her lips trembling. “He’s been here.”

Mia looks at the screen and goes pale. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Ali nods weakly, but something stops her. She turns toward the window, the faint outline of their reflections in the glass. For a heartbeat, she thinks she sees another shape behind them—a man standing just out of sight, head tilted, watching.

She blinks, and it’s gone.

Her breath comes in shallow, shaky bursts. “He’s not outside anymore,” she whispers.

Mia frowns. “What?”

Ali’s eyes dart around the room, the corners, the shadows. “He’s in here. He has to be.”

Mia grabs her arm. “Ali, stop. You’re scaring me.”

But Ali’s gaze is distant now, her mind spiraling inward. Every sound, every flicker of movement feels amplified. The walls pulse with quiet noise. The air feels heavy, dense with presence.

“I can feel him,” she murmurs. “He’s watching.”

Mia shakes her head. “Ali, there’s no one here.”

But Ali doesn’t answer. She’s already lifting her camera again, pointing it toward the darkest corner of the room. Her finger trembles over the shutter button.

Click.

The flash blinds them both for a moment. When the light fades, Ali stares at the camera screen. Her expression changes slowly—from fear to something hollow, unreadable.

“What is it?” Mia asks.

Ali’s voice is barely a whisper. “He’s smiling.”